Out of the Dark
by WaterGirl14
Summary: AU. The trio has split up. Random murders are being committed. Danny's friends and relatives are disappearing. His secret identity, and his life, are in danger. But he doesn't know it. Rating upped for Language and Content.
1. The Night Mistress

The night was dark. She couldn't see further than three feet in front of her, but still she ran. She had to get away from her. That menace. They'd warned her about the Night Mistress, but had she listened? No. No, she had not. She had scoffed. Said that she could outrun any "Night Mistress" she came across. She had her board. She had her suit. After all, they were talking about HER. She'd be fine.

Her board had been destroyed by a gunshot in the thruster.

Her suit torn to shreds by flying debris, courtesy of the grenade and the concrete wall.

And there was nothing she could do now, with a broken arm and no weapons. She could only run. Reduced again to a helpless teenager.

Something clanged in front of her--an orb, which glowed and popped open. Purple gas came in a wave over her, and her mind sank into it. Black edges encroached on her vision. Beneath her, the earth lurched.

Valerie fell, and a feminine arm caught her with utmost dexterity.

The woman smiled. Another notch in her proverbial bedpost, and this one would pay well. She scooped up the former ghost hunter, slung her over her shoulder, walked back to her car.

Today would be a good day.

--

The dark-haired man sat at his desk surrounded by papers. This needed to be signed. This needed looking over. This person under his supervision needed to do this. Tedious and meticulous things on papers that, quite honestly, he didn't care about.

He ran his hand through the mop of hair hiding his blue eyes. It was shorter than it had been in his youth, and even though he was barely twenty-five, there were streaks of silver running through. He scrawled a line that was supposed to be his signature on a paper, but all one could truly make out was the D at the beginning and the F in the middle, both large and looping.

"Fenton!" barked Mr. Kishmeir, a man of Germen descent who happened to be his boss. Daniel jumped to attention.

"Yes sir?"

"We have a 49B in downtown Fezville," said the man through his mustache.

"A 49B?" That was a kidnapping crime. Nothing that _he_ should be concerned with. "Why can't Fezville's police department take care of it?"

"Because, Mr. Fenton," Kishmeir said solemnly, "They sent in a special report to us." The burly man turned and started to walk off, the young man following, intent on hearing the rest. People around them let their eyes linger on the sight--it wasn't very often that Daniel was dragged into the Deputy's office. A rough shout from the German got them to disperse.

They passed through the main corridor, windows showing the bedrock the complex was burrowed into. Dan had never understood why an underground building would have windows, but he never asked. Just to be on the safe side. The poster on the wall beside the window was a large graph or their latest catches: Skulker, Ember, Lynx, Juliana, the Box Ghost. It seemed the Department of Spectral Activity had been busy lately. Formed shortly after Daniel had graduated from High School, they'd pulled him out of college-- Amity Park University, nothing special--and stuck him here, under the grounds that since his parents were ghost hunters, he would be too.

They had no idea that he wasn't exactly human. Why would they? He'd probably be out of a job if they knew. Somehow, he'd manage to keep his secret just that--a secret. Although, it surprised Daniel that Kishmeir, who was a very intelligent person, hadn't made the connection that every time Dan was sent on patrol, Amity Park's resident spirit showed up to take care of it.

Within no time, they had walked through the complex and had ended up in Deputy Kishmeir's office. Papers were everywhere, much like the cubicle that Daniel had just come from.

"You look swamped," the young man said before he could stop himself.

The stern look he got from his superior officer shut him up. "Mr. Fenton, you clearly do not understand the severity of the situation."

"You haven't told me anything!" Kishmeir whipped around, a vein in his forehead ticking, and Daniel hastily added, "Mr. Kishmeir, sir."

"Have you looked at the report yet, Mr. Fenton?" Of course, he shook his head. "Well, in that case, you should read this." He turned to a filing cabinet, leaving the young man to wonder what was going to happen.

After about half a minute, Daniel's mind started to wander a bit, as did his eyes. Over there on the wall was a map of the county, with red, yellow, and black tacks sticking out where there had been recent attacks. He could recognize a few of the cases. The red one for Elm Street had been Spectra as she had tried to take over an asylum. The red tack sticking out of Joshua Lane was Ember's latest guitar shop raid. That yellow one down by the docks was just the Box Ghost.

What caught his eye, however, was the set of black tacks clustered in Central Amity Park. A glance at the filing cabinet told Daniel that Kishmeir was still occupied with the report, so he walked over to get a closer look.

The pushpins formed almost a spider-web as they spread out from downtown, reaching all the way to the North Mercy hospital on the easternmost border of Fezville. There was a trail separate from the cluster leading into the neighboring city, winding through the slums like a snake. It was curious.

"Who is this?" the man asked as he turned to his boss. "Aren't black tacks supposed to be for the most dangerous ghosts?"

"The most dangerous _anything_, Mr. Fenton," Kishmeir corrected as he pulled out the report. "And since there has been a murder or a kidnapping at each of those locations, we would consider the culprit to be extremely dangerous. Here," he said. "Read this over. It will give you the details of the black tacks."

Daniel looked down at the stack of papers. It didn't seem like much. Was the DSA overreacting about this whole thing? It had happened in the past...

"Fenton, I said you're dismissed!"

He jumped. "Y-Yes sir!" And with that, he was gone.

"_Zicklein_," Kishmeir muttered, sitting at his desk and sorting through papers.

--

Back in the safety of his own cubicle, Daniel plopped in his desk limply. Honestly, he hated dealing with Mr. Kishmeir. Even as an adult he was always worried about screw-ups. And he was probably saddled with the worst boss in the history of bad bosses. It was possible that this was karma paying him back for...

Well...he wouldn't dig up that memory today.

The day was clearly not going to be a good one. He had a stack of paperwork the size od Montana on his desk and after that little encounter with Kishmeir, he felt like his back and neck had coiled into a tense, knotty ball of wires.

With a sigh, Dan turned to face his stack of papers and bills, picked up his pen, and got to work. Might as well get everything over with.

--

She could smell the rust hanging in the air, a product of the perpetually dripping pipes hanging from the ceiling. She stepped over a puddle of brown water, prey hoisted over her shoulder, limp and bloody. The crimson would stain her suit, wouldn't it? Oh well. It wasn't like she'd wear it for much longer after this.

The woman walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoing loudly. The door at the end was open slightly--she could see the light reflecting on the opposite hall. Good. He was in.

With her free hand, she pushed her way through the door and dropped the body unceremoniously into a chair. Her mask was pulled over her head and dropped onto the floor next to a large oak desk.

"You're late."

He was sitting in a computer chair--one of the blue ones with the small back. If he had a large one perhaps he would look more villanous at the moment. Still, the steepled fingers were rather menacing, if stereotypical. Her boss stared at her from under his slightly mangy eyebrows and mass of hair.

She wasn't quite afraid of him anymore.

"Sorry, boss," she said as she pulled up the unoccupied chair. "Ms. Grey put up a chase. They don't usually run." Her hair was up--she tugged it out of it's ponytail and let the black locks brush her shoulders. The black catsuit she was wearing was for stealth and practicality--it had nothing to get caught on, and she blended into the shadows perfectly. Besides, it suited her curves.

He clicked his fingernails together in annoyance and fixed his usual glare on her. "You are getting sloppy."

She gritted her teeth against a comment that would probably get her killed. It was funny. Just a few years ago that wouldn't have stopped her. Nowadays she had to be careful, calculating. "I know."

He had spun around to face the back wall. "I am allowing you to go home today."

"I know." For the first time in years! She would be able to escape this hell hole for a while, a week, maybe two. See her parents--well, her father at least. Her best friend! She wondered how he was doing. The other one...well...she didn't care whether he was alive or dead. A big reunion, with everyone she cared about--being able to say, Hey world! I'm still alive!

"I have another assignment for you before that."

The vision rumbled before her eyes.

She was silent, her mouth hanging open. "You...what?"

"It's a simple one." He spun around quickly, slamming his hands on the desk. She jumped. "Or are you complaining? I hate complaining." His eyes, black as pits, narrowed dangerously. "You are not as valuable as you think. You could easily end up just like her." A slight twitch was his only indication of the dead, mangled mess that was once a girl.

She shook. "No...I'm not complaining." She should be used to this by now, not swallowing a scream and fighting the urge to run. "What is the assignment?"

His smile made her somehow feel much, much worse.


	2. Four Have Been Found

Daniel sighed as he finally walked out of the front doors, the evening sun setting and changing the sky into a brilliant painting, with golds and reds and pinks for colors. The cool fall air was crisp and refreshing, but quite honestly it was good to just be able to see non-flourescent light.

His jacket over his shoulder, Daniel walked into a nearby alley for the trip home. He wasn't really worried about getting mugged or anything as he transformed, after all, but in the back of his mind he couldn't help but think about those killings and kidnappings.

He got a running start today, wanting to feel the wind in his hair on the trip home. This was always the best part of the day--the flight over the city. He could see everything so clearly, and people below always waved at him. Why wouldn't they? Amity Park had accepted that Danny Phantom was help, not harm, even if they couldn't call him the "Ghost Boy" anymore. "Ghost Man" sounded silly, anyway. Phantom, perhaps? His other self had used it, and it certainly was fitting. Then again, Daniel wasn't muscular and strong-looking like his old nemesis.

The apartment Daniel was renting was small, but homey. Much of his old stuff from his room was scattered about, but with the help of his mother and sister, the place was decorated nicely. That wasn't to say it was clean, though--25 year old Daniel Fenton wasn't any neater than 14 year old Danny Fenton.

He didn't even bother to go in the front door, instead phasing in through the ceiling, and making sure Ms. Zitterfritzerstien upstairs didn't spot him. The crazy lady would think he was trying to hurt her cats.

Perfect aim. Dan transformed back without looking, and landed on the worn-out burgundy sofa with a light "fwump." The spring underneath, admittedly, gave out slightly with a creak, but all in all it was a wonderful landing.

Dan sighed happily, dug between two of the cuchions to find the remote. He grasped the little object and clicked on the television. The standard station was Cartoon Network, of course, but today he flipped through to the news--Channel 5. Beneath his couch was a pad of paper and pencil--this time he phased his arm down and grabbed them to take notes. This was standard procedure. This channel usually covered any peculiar kidnappings or ghost attacks that he, as a ghost hunter, should check out.

An aged Lance Thunder fizzled into veiw (Dan really needed to get the antennae fixed) standing in front of what might have been Fez Plaza, but it was really hard to tell. The buildings were smashed to bits--there was a large bloodstain in the street, garbage everywhere and two canisters, both in a puddle of purple. The road was torn up so badly it looked like Lance was standing in gravel. Dan whistled through his teeth.

"_The scene behind me,_" Lance was saying on the TV, "_Is what remains of a mysterious kidnapping that took place last night. 24-year-old Valerie Grey was last seen at approximately 3 AM by two of her coworkers._"

Dan dropped the remote, leaned forward with a slack jaw.

"_This kidnapping is suspected to be connected to the work of a female serial killer whose identity is unknown. Security cameras caught only a small glimpse of her before they were destroyed. Let's see it._"

The picture that flashed on screen had some numbers in the corner--the time read 12:31 PM, the date was June 2nd 2015, about two weeks ago. There was a blur of movement and then the screens went fuzzy. With narration the clip was rewound and paused, and the black-and-white still gave just a vauge impression of the woman who was there. She was small, for sure, and of average build, perhaps a bit on the skinny side. That was all you could see. A black skin-tight suit with black gloves, black shoes, and a black mask was her cover, and it worked very well. Through the black mesh over the eye holes you couldn't see a thing. Then, in slow motion, the woman held a gun to the camera, and presumaby pulled the trigger.

"_The woman is known only as the Night Mistress, a nickname given to her by the locals in the area. A search is being conducted for Ms. Grey and the 18 other known victims. Of these, four have been found, all dead._"

Then Lance Thunder melted into Tiffany Storm (she'd gotten married recently, after all) who was moving onto the sports, and Dan turned off the TV.

Approximately five and a half seconds later, he was flying out of his apartment across town.

--

The large Fenton Works sign was still there after all these years, and for some reason that always comforted Dan when he flew by. It meant that his father really hadn't blown anything up. Landing in the alley beside his old house, Dan changed back. It was starting to get dark now, and visibility was poor, but he still didn't want to risk his secret. He smoothed out his clothes (why didn't he change out of his suit and tie?) and walked up the porch steps, ringing the doorbell.

Tapped his foot on the ground. Checked his watch. No answer. Another ring.

"Mom? Dad?" Dan called when, again, met with silence. He rapped harshly on the wood, and still there was nothing from inside. Grab for the knob--locked. A little panicked Dan phased inside, without bothering to change back or hide it.

In the house it was dark and quiet. The house lights were off--the brief pulsations of the emergency lights illuminated the room every now and then with a red glow. The power was out. Why was the power out?

"Mom?" Dan yelled. "Dad?" He flew upstairs--nothing but silence. Flew back downstairs. Emptiness. Then to the basement.

The portal hadn't been opened in years. Dan had told his father to keep it locked and under surveilence. Sure, the ocassional ghost got out but was that his father's fault? No. So when he saw the green and purple light flickering on the walls, mixing with the red flashes to make a sickly brown, Dan's heart kicked into overdrive. How long had it been open? Why was it open?

Then he saw the bodies.

The crimson pool on the ground, in the cracks between the tiles was not a reflection of the lights. He didn't know who the crumpled objects were and yet in the bottom of his heart something snapped, something recognized the blood-stained jumpsuits and matted hair and protruding bones and the bile in his throat that was on the floor just a moment later, the coughing and spluttering and gagging, the smell of death and decay and ectoplasm.

He couldn't look at them. And yet he had to--had to inspect the bodies. He was trained like a police officer--it was his job to look over these things, find out whe who, what, when...

Why?

Dan held back another stomachful of vomit as he inspected them, a few horrified tears on his face. Blunt trauma to the head and spine. The necks had been snapped. Mutilated stomachs--entrails spilled out onto the floor, bloody but intact.

They'd been dead for an hour or two. If he'd rushed here after work--if he hadn't stopped at home...

Dan collapsed to the floor, retching and screaming all at the same time.

--

She walked through the streets in the dark, carefully avoiding the lights on the roadside. She wasnt going to be spotted--not this time.

Her car was sitting in her driveway, untouched for the moment. In downtown Fezville you never knew who would try to vandalize or steal you personal property. But she'd never been without belongings for long. Getting your stuff back from an amateur was easy when you were the Night Mistress.

The front door was unlocked--strange. She always kept it bolted tight. On alert now, the Night Mistress crept through the hall, hugging the walls, listening for activity. And there it was--just like she suspected, she heard the sliding of drawers in her bedroom upstairs.

She could climb up her stairs, old and creaking, without a single sound. The robber upstairs would not have any idea she was home. Still wearing the catsuit, she turned into her bedroom and there he stood, rummaging through her drawers loudly and clumsily.

There was a click, and the robber looked over to the barrel of a gun.

A shot rang out into the night. The dogs barked, car alarms went off, and the neighborhood lit up like a Christmas tree.

--

In twenty minutes, the police surrounded the house.

They walked in through the open door, as the neighbors watched through their curtained windows, and heard crying.

Police Cheif Connors barked his orders to the squad and carefully proceeded upstairs. There in the moonlight he saw a young woman in her nightgown--black and lacy. She was crouched on the floor, sobs wracking her body as she stood over a dead man. On the bed was a gun--a revolver, one that was common in this neighborhood for self-defense.

Chief Connors knelt beside the woman to look at the man. He wore a ski mask and gloves--clearly a criminal who had entered the home. A gun wound went clean through his head--there was blood and clear liquid on the floor. Chief Connors placed his hand on the sobbing woman's shoulder, asked, "What happened here, Miss?" He had a vaugely southern accent, a bushy blonde mustache.

The woman said, between gasps, "I woke up, and he was there over me, and--and--he..." Overcome, the woman buried her face in the shoulder of the burly man, who patted her comfortingly. "I grabbed the gun from my nightstand--that's where D-Daddy always told me to keep it, j-just in case." The woman took a wet gasp. "And, and then he got off...but he pulled out a gun too, so I, I..."

Inspecting the woman in the dim light, as she broke down again, he could see that she was covered in bruises. A struggle, then. Yes, it would seem that she had been violated. Looking down at the dead man, he saw a revolver beside his hand--perhaps a little ways off. Certainly that fit the description. And this poor woman, she was far too upset to be lying.

Police Chief Connors didn't much think about how such a woman could shoot a man dead between the eyes when her hands were shaking like that from the fear. Or how there wasn't any blood on the bed. He didn't see the bottom drawer haphazardly shut, either, with a bit of black spandex sticking out the top. No. Chief Connors was just too trusting.

"What is your name, little lady?" he said, helping her to her feet.

With a sniff, the woman said, "I'm Samantha. Samantha Manson."

And she smiled.


	3. Reunion

The police cars parked in front of the house, their lights flashing silently, taping off the house, was enough to gather a crowd together. Dan was standing on the sidewalk, off to the side as men and women marched in and out of the house, wiping brows, murmuring their sympathies to him. A small towel was around his shoulders--it probably was to help him get rid of the vomit. But now, he just needed to feel something other than cold and numb.

The worst part was that he knew everyone on the Amity Park squad, having both lived in the area for 18 years and regularly met up with them on jobs. For some reason, he thought it would have been better for strangers to see him like this, stained and staring off in the distance like doing so would make his parents come back to life.

Chief Connors and his cruiser was pulling up now, and suddenly Dan felt a large hand on his shoulder. Just the size his dad's would be.

"I'm sorry boy," the man said through his mustashe. Dan was silent, hugging the towel around him closer. "If there's anything we can do..."

"I need a phone." His voice was hoarse and choked, the first time he'd said anything after calling 911. There was one inside, but he didn't want to go anywhere near the house. He didn't want to be here at all.

They stormed in and out of the big brick building like little army ants, until one of them finally pressed a cell phone into the palm of his hand and he just looked at it for a moment. In his hand it was small and cool, pressing up against a cut he'd gotten when falling to the floor to heave away lunch and pain. Soothing it.

And without him knowing it he was dialing the familiar number 555-8825 and it was ringing, ringing, the ringing in ears of his own screams echoing around the basement.

After an eternity, a click.

"Tucker. Get over here. I need you, man."

It was ten minutes. Just ten. Tuck had never made the trip in less that 15 but here he was in ten, the brakes squealing and car swerving to a stop a dangerous inch from the cruiser, the familiar man leaping out almost through the window, in such a hurry he hardly touched the ground.

"What happened?" A dead stop beside his best and only friend, staring at the line of policemen filing in, out, around, the area finally taped off with yellow and black lines. Danny was on the ground now, head in his hands as his emotions were pouring out of his eyes through his fingers onto the pavement. The numbness was gone. He missed it. Missed it like he missed them.

And he didn't even look up to say, "My parents. They've been killed."

Tucker didn't need to hear any more. He grabbed the black-haired man by the shoulders, hefted him up (Tuck had grown taller, stronger since high school) and pulled him into a bear hug. Now was not the time to worry about awkward situations. Danny was sobbing already, understandably, and better it be on Tucker than the sidewalk.

There was a crowd gathering, now, of nosy neighbors and bystanders, all peering at the scene, wondering what was going on. All of them gasped when the two gurneys were wheeled out, white sheets stained with ruby droplets being pushed gingerly into the back of a van, driven off. Body bags being taken to a morgue.

"Oh, God," Tuck said, his face paling, suddenly looking as though he may be sick. "Wha...What happened?"

Police Chief Connors was walking out of the house now, a team behind him wearing white gloves, face masks, holding little packets of evidence. "They were murdered. By our Night Mistress."

Dan had gotten enough of it out to stand up to his full height, if shaking, a professional at his best. "That's impossible. They can't have been muh--murd--" He stumbled upon the word, swallowed hard. "Killed by her. She only strikes at night."

Connors sighed, his mustache fluttering. "Not today. Son, your parents were full off bullet wounds that match those of the other victims. The same bones were broken. The same blood patterns spattered around. They were even cut open the same way. It can't be mere coincidence."

Shaking, wobbling, Danny furiously shook his head, tilting violently, so that Tucker had to catch him to keep him upright. "No. No no." She'd seemed so far away. Too far away. Like she could never affect him. First Valerie. Now his parents. Within the last six hours his world had shattered.

"No!"

And he hit the ground again, a new wave of sorrow and rage and hate passing over his, and all he saw was that image of a concealed woman holding a gun to their heads, in turn, and then his, and pulling the trigger too fast for him to move away.

--

Samantha Manson sat in her kitchen, sipping her morning coffee (black, of course) as she leafed through the _Fezville Times_. Most of the articles didn't hold her attention for more than a few seconds, and she completely passed over the classified ads. No, there was something very specific she was looking for today.

Another flip of a page--two articles, back to back. The first one she was expecting. _Fezville and Amity Park Police Depertments Team Up to Catch Night Mistress._ It was about time, wasn't it? And they always had an article in here about _her_.

The second article, and she gasped.

_Amity Park's Most Famous Ghost Hunters Slaughtered in Home by Night Mistress._

This surprised Sam. This surprised her very much.

"I didn't do _this_..." she murmured to herself, scanning the paper voraciously, as though she could eat the words with her eyes.

Oh, no no. She may hate him, and hate him a lot for what he'd done, but killing an old friend was one thing--killing his parents? She adored his parents. Sent them a Christmas card every year. His mother still called to chat, even through everything that had happened. Jazz was one of her closest friends, as was Tuck. This...even she would not stoop to such a level.

But it coincided with her newest mission quite well. Indeed, she thought she could pull this off with much ease.

Painful as it was going to be...the rewards at the end would be marvelous.

--

_"I want you to do something simple," he said, druming his fingers together, leaning on his desk. "Very simple. It's almost a basic mission."_

_She nodded._

_"The character known as Danny Phantom," he said slowly, pushing towards her a recent newspaper clipping of her old companion flying through the sky after another daring rescue. "I want you to kill him."_

_She smiled. "Gladly."_

_He held up a finger. "Not immediately. You see, I need information from him. I want you to infiltrate his base and hack his systems. His technology must be mine."_

_Another nod. "But how?"_

_He smiled. "Charm him."_

--

He was back at home, now, Jazz and Tucker on either side of his broken couch, his sister weeping. Her hair, normally neat, had fallen out of it's bun, and there were mascara tracks running down her cheeks and onto her clothes. Jazz's husband, Trent, held her close, trying to comfort her to no avail. Little Sally was still at school, thank goodness. Dan didn't think it would be good to see her mother so distraught.

As it were, he was staring out his window at nothing, wondering what kind of sick woman would kill an elderly couple. And be able to do it without signs of a struggle.

"I just...don't get it," he said, half to himself and half to Tucker, who was walking to his little kitchen to get Jazz a glass of water.

"Get what?" he asked cautiously, turning away from the cupboard slightly to look.

Dan turned slightly, glanced at his shoes, continued. "Why would she kill my parents? Valerie I understand, I mean..." He swallowed. "She was dangerous, she hunted down criminals. But, my folks?" Daniel shook his head. "Wouldn't hurt a fly. I mean, this woman isn't a ghost, is she?"

Tucker shrugged. "They don't think so. It's possible." He shot his best friend a worried look. Danny must have been in shock from this whole thing. Losing his parents? He should be a wreck. But, then, Fenton did work with the police on a regular basis. Saw people hurt and killed because of ghosts. Was he just acting normal out of instinct? Habit? It really was not normal.

"Just don't get it," Dan was muttering to the window. Tuck set the glass of water beside Jazz, whose sobbing had been steadily decreasing in intensity.

And then there came the knock.

Four pairs of eyes turned to the door, the room suddenly silent. For a moment all was still. Then the knock came again, twice this time, a bit more urgent and as the others traded looks of confusion Dan raced over to the door, yelling, "Coming! Hold on!"

The doorknob was cool in his hand as he turned it, not bothering to look through the peephole because, really, he'd kept the person waiting and he had ghost powers for Christ's sake he'd be fine.

Or so he thought.

With a creak, the door opened to a scene that had Dan's jaw on the floor. Standing before him was a woman of about medium height, with jet black hair that hung, straight and with a perfect little wave in it that gave it a shine down to her shoulders. Her face was pale and she was wearing a black jacket over what looked like a light blue dress, a summer dress. She was thin and yet full-figured and very, very pretty.

That is not what made him gape, however. No, what had him staring were the eyes--bright, saddened, and lavender.

"Hey Danny," Sam said quietly. "Mind if I come in?"


	4. Gigglewater

And just like that it was almost back to normal. At least, with Jazz and Tucker and Trent it was. God, she still remembered getting those two together all those years ago. Locking two people in a closet works wonders when there's enough sexual tension in the room to choke a whale.

She was sitting on Danny's couch now--well, it wasn't Danny anymore, though. Just Fenton to her. Dan was what he liked to be called, but she wouldn't grant him that.

Jazz and Tucker had swept her up into a massive hug just moments before, and she'd laughed. Really, truly laughed. These two were her friends, her closest companions. These two had always been there for her, even when she'd run off. They'd been stuck in the middle and hadn't even taken sides...or at least not outwardly. After all, they were still living in the same area as Fenton. But that couldn't be helped.

Trent liked her, too. After he got over the whole, _hey, you locked me in a closet with my future wife_, thing, anyway. That took a while. But it was worth it, he'd said.

Danny...or, well, Fenton, actually...wasn't so familiar with her. And his surprise was much less exuberant and more...dreadful. She'd showed him the latest copy of the _Times_, and not surprisingly he hadn't taken that well. She'd liked that, his sudden horrified, painful expression. This job would definitely be a good one for her. Tormenting him of all people. Hah. And she'd probably get laid out of it, too. Two birds.

But he hadn't really looked at her after that, and as Jazz and Tucker were trying to go back to normal with the _Hey how are you? What have you been up to? How's work?_ It was starting to get almost...awkward.

Especially since he was still standing by the door. Staring at her.

God, he'd changed so much. And yet he hadn't. His hair was shorter and had those little streaks of grey in them, like he was 40. Fighting probably aged him. Maybe he'd just gone ghost so much he was starting to get white hair in human form, too. But it was still shaggy and messy as always. His face was harsher, more angular, much more mature than it had been when she'd left. It has just been starting like that, and now...wow. He looked like the kind of guy who would be dangerous, almost, except for the little bit of softness at his cheeks and his eyes. And the eyes were exactly the same. She could still see some of the boyish wonder and confusion in them that he'd had back in high school. The same bright, piercing blue, that made you want to either fall into them or scream.

Even his body looked different to her. He was still tall and still lanky, but much less awkward looking. It was kind of like he'd finally gained control of his limbs and then filled them out. Certainly he wasn't burly, like she had imagined him being (his evil future form was what she'd always assumed he would look like) but he was definitely older. And his clothes? Gone were the t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He was dressed in a blue-collared shirt, buttoned only halfway up, and most assuredly not done correctly. He must have just come from work, or something, and tried to change. Black slacks, wrinkled, and unshined black loafers--loafers! She'd never have guessed--completed the look. Disheveled professional just back from the job.

Hot damn.

But then again, she'd changed too. But that was for him to ponder over.

Briefly she wondered what he was thinking. Probably about her story. Why she was there. Where she'd been all this time. Figures. She'd never talked to him since that day seven years ago. Or was it eight? She felt like she should know. Walking in on him like that. You'd think she'd remember every little detail.

Then again, she'd try to bury a lot of it. Succeeded in some places, too. Man. Wasn't that just a kick in the shorts. She could almost barely remember some things.

"So," he finally said, his voice still rough and gravelly, "Where have you been?"

There it was, finally out there in the air. The bridge between the two of them. Finally. Not that she'd tell him everything she'd been up to. But, well, she could try.

"Fezville," Sam answered, recrossing her legs. "I haven't really been up to anything. Joined the FPD." His eyebrow shot up. Very _Star Trek_ of him. Finally got that little ability. A little shrug. "Got an apartment, you know. The usual."

"Really." It wasn't really a question, technically. He made it sound more like he didn't believe her. Why would he? She'd run off suddenly and nothing else had happened.

God, he regretted so much about that day when she'd left.

--

_The pink slip was not anything Danny ever thought he'd have to see from this boss. He was a good worker, really. He did exactly what he was told, and he was almost always there on time._

_Apparently the almost thing was the issue. That, and his spontaneous disappearances when he had to go fight one spook or another. Either way, he'd stared at the thing for a good ten minutes after his boss had shooed him out. It was just an office job, filing papers and being the bitch for six or seven officials or whatever. Hey, it got the money. Paying for college was hard enough, and he'd barely been able to afford the apartment. This?_

_So what to do? Tuck had the most brilliant of ideas. Go out. Get really smashed. Hey, __Canada__ wasn't that far away. Forget about it tomorrow when you're too busy throwing up and being hung over. And that's just what they did. _

_Somewhere around the fifth beer Tucker's current girlfriend showed up to take them home. Star. That blonde girl who always hung out with Paulina. Paulina herself, of course, was probably out fucking her fiancée Chaz. She'd been sooo busy lately, Star was complaining. Tuck managed to convince her to have a beer or two, because she needed to loosen up. Probably not the best idea. But hey, they'd made it back alive an hour later, all giggling and stuff._

_Danny noticed Star had been making eyes at him all night, of course. Tuck managed to pass out on the couch almost as soon as he got back to Danny's apartment. Probably left sometime during the night after a bout of throwing up. Or something. Who knows. Danny certainly couldn't remember the next morning. _

_He was sooo busy. _

_Of course, having a drunk guy and a hot blonde chick who might have had just a little too much gigglewater in the same room was not a good idea when the girl's boyfriend was undead on the couch and the guy had a girlfriend who would just happen to show up early the next morning with a sympathy card._

_Which Danny found in Sam's coat, draped over Tucker, after he'd managed to untangle himself from Star absolutely mortified at what he'd manage to do the night before._

_And he hadn't seen heads or tail of Sam since._

--

"Why are you here, Sam?" Dan asked, crossing his arms. He was just so tired. So very tired of it all.

Just like that he was an orphan.

Seeing his coworkers, really, had been the worst of all that had happened. You had to try and keep yourself stoic in front of people you knew, answering questions with a face like a broken brick wall, even though your mind was a beehive of emotion and activity. Those thoughts had killed him. Who could sneak past his parents without arousing suspicion? Who could kill his mother, so fiery and strong and smart and brave? Or his father, so intimidating and large but so soft and welcoming? Both had short fuses and the best enemy-detection technology on the face of the earth. How could anyone get in?

The whispering his comrades had done, the words Night Mistress over and over, buzzed in his brain now, stuck like a song. Telling Jazz as calmly as he did, maybe that was worse. Helping her plan the funeral, set for the day after tomorrow, wasn't so bad. Too surreal. He was too detached. Listening to the waves over her tears that crashed through the phone, she'd be there soon with her family.

How could they just be gone? He was still wondering that. Both so young? Mid fifties. Too soon.

After the police had cleared out, after Tucker had left to go pick up Jazz from the airport, he'd walked through his parent's home. His old home. No, it still was his home, even if he lived somewhere else. He'd carefully visited his old room, bare and blue, with no hint that once a teenager as sloppy as himself had lived there, except for the darker patches on the walls where his posters had gone. He even made sure to use his powers and float and not touch a thing.

Don't disturb the evidence.

Jazz's room...he still remembered his parents weeping when she brought the last box to her car and drove away for the airport, to go to Harvard to major in child psychiatry.

He wondered, for a moment, what his parents would think if they'd known about this all. Finding out their little princess and little sport were without the guidance they needed most right now. Dan was battle hardened, to be sure--he'd broke every bone in his body at least twice, didn't have an inch of skin that wasn't at least faintly scarred...but he'd never recover from this wound.

Sam just made it worse.

She was so...different. Nothing like the scrawny waif that had left him so long ago. She was still the same five foot five, her hair was the same jet black, her eyes the same vivid purple. But everything else? He hardly recognized her.

Her body was so much more filled out, now, that it was hard not to look at her. Her hips were just so much rounder, her waist so much more defined and yet she was not scrawny, no. Dan had always thought he'd liked Sam because she had been on the verge of anorexia as a teenager--always got flak about it from her mother, he had to hear it all the damn time--because she was just naturally small. But now? God damn. She could be called curvy--she could be called voluptuous. She could be called sexy as hell, and if the circumstances had been different she would have been locked in his bedroom. Now, god, if her mother had seen her now she would start on the other tear--Samantha dear you are far to big for your own good.

Sometimes Dan was glad her parents had gotten into a car accident when they were seventeen. Because it just made everything easier after the first three months.

He wouldn't get into the state of Sam's chest except to say, wow. They'd done stuff at 18 of the sexual nature--yeah, he could admit they'd deflowered each other thoroughly--were actually doing stuff at 14, but not to quite that extent. He'd seen that...aspect of her evolve over the years, but clearly whenever Sam's hamster-on-crack metabolism had fallen off its wheel, her chest had gotten a boost of about two cup sizes.

And he'd seen a lot of breasts in the last seven years. But he'd never had to gawk at them in disbelief.

Her hair, now, was down and so much longer, and no longer like that of a pageboy. But the little flip was still there, the little curvy crinkle that he liked so much. When she'd brushed by him to get tackled by his best friend and sister, he could smell the same lavender shampoo she liked so much, but the perfume she wore? Like roses. And women.

The black gothic clothes were mostly gone, too. Under the leather jacket she wore a robins-egg-blue summer dress, sleeveless and perfect for the hot and muggy weather outside. It had ruffles in it at the bottom, a trait her mother would have approved of, and went halfway down her thighs, which her mother would _not_ have approved of. And those black stilettos looked like they were guns on knives, so sleek and metallic looking.

Good lord.

"I'm sorry about everything that happened," Sam said genuinely. "You parents, and all. It must be...hard." She probably didn't have any idea what he was going through. Sam never really mourned for her folks, or at least her mother. But she looked repentant and sympathetic, now.

Dan looked away from her big, pleading eyes.

"I was wondering what I could do to help," she said, standing. Her skirt had ridden up and he watched as she tugged it back down over her long legs. "And I..." Here she hesitated a bit. "I want to um..."

Silence.

"To what?" Tucker finally said, causing the two former lovers to shoot him the same glare.

But then Sam sighed again and said, "I uh...I was wondering if I could crash here for a couple weeks."

More silence, then...

"Oh, _fuck_ my _life_."


End file.
